


Blessed

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Mild Angst, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"While joy takes dominance, sensations more akin to fear are not uncommon."  The rest of the book was nonsense. Leandra did not need the Chantry's clarification to determine that much. However, the cruelest lies were those that held a kernel of truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** Written in response to [this excerpt](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/118277120591/dashingapostate-this-is-digusting) from World of Thedas Volume II, which broke my heart.

The twins were ill.

Six days of coughing and crying, upset stomachs and runny noses.

Malcolm was a competent healer, but it was not the children’s first affliction of the season and according to his training, turning to the spirits with any great frequency to restore a youngster’s health made for sickly adults. With the household’s cache of herbs and tonics nearing depletion, the two day trek to Highever had become inevitable.

Malcolm had been gone for four, however, the snow twirling in flurries about their cottage was bound to delay his return.

When Leandra startled awake, it was with no memory of falling asleep. The sound of a toddler’s laughter filled the room and she breathed a sigh of relief, eyes closed, basking in the luxury of inertia for one more stolen moment.

Thank the Maker for her eldest.

Wreath was a darling child, mischievous and playful as any boy of eight. He built boats from leaves and twigs to sail in puddles when it rained, waged wooden-sword duels against saplings in the grove and (to Leandra’s horror) ran with the pack of feral hounds that came sniffing about for food as though he might join their number.

There was another side to him as well. Serious and aware, innocence tempered by the fragility of any peace the family enjoyed. With his father away, he kept close to the house, quiet and alert, fetching wood and lugging water without being told. When she admonished that his burdens were too heavy, he insisted that he could manage, wiry arms straining, sweat beading on his brow despite the season as he shrugged off her attempts to ease his load.

The snow had come early. For three nights it fell, blanketing the house. Water seeped through the thatch, forming ice on the beams and drips when it melted. The largest of these leaks, as though conjured by demonic whim, had sprung above the stack of logs Malcolm chopped before departing. Leandra had salvaged what she was able, but the wood was soaked and the supply of usable tinder was dwindling. Never before had a thing so simple as firewood been a concern. There was always a pile on hand, albeit more for show than use. After all, with Malcolm’s talents, light and heat were only a thought away.

She made do, using only what was needed to ward off the worst of the chill. They might yet make it through the evening, and then she would begin breaking furniture apart.

Her daughter laughed again and suddenly, a flare of heat rushed through the room.

Leandra was on her feet in an instant, weariness forgotten.

“Wreath! What are you—?!”

She gasped, stricken with horror, watching as a plume of fire licked at her child’s hand. Her gaze flew to the water basin in the corner, visions of burns, fevered infections and lost limbs flashing before her mind’s eye.

“Mama?” the boy questioned. Calm, yet unsure.

Her eyes darted back to him – to the flames engulfing his limb.

“Weaf make wom,” Bethany supplied, wiping her runny nose on her hessian doll’s skirt. Carver drowsed in a tiny lump beside his brother, thumb lodged between his lips.

Wreath’s eyes, blue as her own, were wide as he watched her, peering past overlong locks of Malcolm’s dark hair. His fingers folded downward and the flame disappeared, his skin unblemished and whole. “It—it was getting cold, Mama,” he said, eyes flitting between her face and the hearth…where white-hot flames crackled with only ashes for fuel.

“ _You’re_ doing that, Wreath?” Leandra heard herself ask, both thankful and amazed at the lack of quaver in her tone.

Her son’s nod was solemn. “It was getting cold,” he said again.

As the panic subsided, aches began to intrude on Leandra’s awareness, like needles digging into her bones. Her head was sore. Her legs. The muscles along her spine. How long had she slept?

Comprehension settled slowly and her chest grew tight. Her little boy was a mage – an apostate, like his father.

Yet more to fear. Yet another reason to hide.

And if _not_ for that, the cold would have taken them all.

Leandra found a smile and pasted it on. “That’s… _good_ , dear.”

She walked to her son where he perched on his shins and planted a kiss in his hair. Wreath looked up at her as she rose, mouth splitting in a gap-toothed grin. “The fire went out,” he said. “And I wanted it to come back. So I made a wish. Like Papa. And it did!” He acted out the flare of the flames, arms thrown up in juvenile exuberance.  As he moved, the fire surged as if commanded, roaring as it rose.

Bethany startled. So did Leandra, but she supressed the flinch.

“That’s very clever,” she assured, seeing Wreath’s look of chagrin as his sister began to cry. Carver fussed in his sleep, but did not wake.

Ignoring the aches in her body, Leandra sank down on the floor. Her daughter was pulled into her lap, her arm wrapping ‘round the first of her sons.

“Your Papa will be proud, sweetheart. Just as I am.”


End file.
